


Aristeia

by GirlWhoWrites



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Thor (Movies), Thor - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Everybody appears eventually, F/M, General Unpleasantness, Magic, Magical PTSD, Misery, Poor Sif, Slow Build, Torture, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-08
Updated: 2014-03-31
Packaged: 2018-01-08 00:04:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 14,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1125961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GirlWhoWrites/pseuds/GirlWhoWrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You think you know pain? He will make you long for something as sweet as pain." The Lady Sif is broken in a million different ways to pay for his sins.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. i don’t ever think about death; it’s alright if you do

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place in a Post-Avengers, possible Post-Dark World. 
> 
> This started out as a more conventional chapter fic, but I found myself experimenting and it evolved into something else, something more interesting. I was really nervous about posting it because it's so different but I really enjoy writing it, so voila!
> 
> I know very little about any sort of comic-canon; most of my information (especially for the Thor-specific characters) is gleaned from the MCU, from Tumblr discussions and various headcanons. 
> 
> Thank you for reading.

She does not know the passing of time.

She does not know where she is.

All she knows is pain.

And she cares for nothing else.

He strips her flesh from her body, her muscle from bone.

He burns her body black, makes her bones creak with ice.

She lost her warrior’s stoicism a long time ago.

Now she screams her throat raw and bloody.

But she does not speak. 

Oh, she prays to Yggdrasil. She repeats names under her breath like a child’s prayer. She finds herself whispering to a death that never comes.

He learns quickly which faces to wear to cause the most perfect of suffering.

He wears Thor’s face, grinning in feral pleasure, as he smashes her bones to splinters and dust with Mjolnir. He wears Frigga’s as magic and poisons burn away at her. He wears Fandral’s as he held her down. 

And the terrible Loki’s as he carved her up, knives flashing and descending so very slowly into her flesh. He would butcher her almost intimately, his teeth flashing white and bloody, as he cut his path downwards.

She knows in that terrible, raw, alive place buried deep in what remains of her mind that it is not him, not them.

But that is such brittle knowledge when her blood and flesh hang from his knife.

That sort of pain, there is no sound. There is heavy ragged breathing and bright lights behind shuttered eyelids. It is words on her lips that she cannot remember and cannot understand.

Pain is sharp and it is dull and it is exhausting. She has learnt how many different ways she can bleed - the scarlet stains smeared on rock; the flicker and silent death of all hope; the bitter choked scream of will.

She is so tired of seeing her closest and dearest carve her up with so much savage pleasure. She is tired of the taste of blood in her mouth. She is tired of fighting for her next breath, for knowing what it feels like to have her body broken around her over and over again.

He breaks her and then he brings her back, healed imperfectly so that she might remember, so the next time it will hurt more.

She chokes on blood and her own teeth and she glares up at him, the last of any sort of obstinance she might gather, through hair matted with blood and filth. And her rough, raw voice asks, “What do you want?” It still bears the ghosts of steel, of determination and strength, and that makes it impossibly unfamiliar. 

He leans close to her, his stinking breath foul in her face. He grins at her as his hands close over her broken and burnt arms, holding her in place.

“There is nothing I want from you, Shieldmaiden,” he laughs.


	2. some part of you, it's too small to lose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What do they expect when they find her?
> 
> She doesn’t know and she doesn’t care. (Righteous fury, she remembers that one. Horror, she is intimate with that.)

What do they expect when they find her?

She doesn’t know and she doesn’t care.

It’s been a long time since she’s been able to move. He broke her leg, the white bone tearing through her skin, to keep her in one place.  The one thing he will not heal. If she cannot stand, she cannot run.

He still likes to pretend she has somewhere to run to, to remind her once again that there is something beyond his games. But she is nothing, she knows this now. She is a toy, a way to fill in time - however it passes here - whilst he waits for the things that matter.

She is slumped there, her face against cool rock. She is nothing now. She has no thoughts or wishes, hopes or fears. She has no shame or dishonour.

She stopped trusting herself some time ago. Her memories war against each other, and she can no longer tell the true from the false. She is no longer certain about anything.

She is not even completely convinced that she is not already dead, and this is her penance - after all, she has a jumble of memories that seem true enough that she should, must, repent for.

The one who finds her does not expect violence, she knows that from the start.

She is sleeping when he touches her, clothed fingers at her throat. She lunges at him as her eyes open. He is a gentle man, she knows that from the way he jumps back, swathed in blinding blue, red and white that looks obscene amongst the dark and the dirt.

He calls for someone and raises his hands slowly, but she does not respond, but curls in on herself again. She is so tired.

He speaks to her again, and she opens her eyes to see him, crouched beside her but so carefully not touching, talking in a low voice that makes her chest feel too tight and her eyes hurt. He produces a slim silver pouch, and offers it to her carefully.

Water.  It’s water.

Her dry tongue slides over the blood and broken skin of her lips and she drinks slowly. Not for a good reason, because she wants to pour that water down her throat, to be purified and baptised in the most hopeful thing she can imagine anymore. No, because he caught that wisp of a thought once, sometime closer to the beginning than the now, and turned all the stale, murky water she was offered to dirt and sand.

And then there are more of them.

She drops the pouch, and the water spills, as she tries to move away from the ones that approach her.

She recognizes their faces from her pain - bones cracking, breaking, piercing under the bulk of the hammer; the glee as his knives slice so cleanly through skin and fat and muscle.

Somehow, she finds her hands digging into the arm of the one who brought her the water, her fingers scrabbling at the heavy fabric he wears. He is not a violent man, she knew that when he approached her, when he checked her for life before anything else. He carries no weapons but a shield.

She had a shield once. And a glaive.

He looks at her, surprise written so clearly on his face, and pain on the two that have approached. The one carrying the hammer reaches for her, and she tries to move away, but pain rips through her again, and the raw, animalistic cry sends all three men stepping back as she curls in on herself again.

A few drops of water, and hope has dulled the memory of pain; she disgusts herself. They are here with their hammer and their knives; let them carve her up as they have so many times before. She will take it now and again, one hundred times over. She has and she will. That is all.

But this time, there are careful hands urging her to sit up again. The man with the water, his face set in a mask that she cannot decipher. Righteous fury, she remembers that one. Horror, she is intimate with that. And something softer, gentler that she doesn’t care for.

He speaks but she does not hear, watching as more join the group - a lady with startling red hair, an archer, someone constructed entirely of metal that brings memories of sand and the baking sun and a massive metal man that breathes flame.

She shrinks against her protector, as words fly over heard, an argument.

The one with the knives, swathed in black and emerald, and watching her so carefully she can see him counting the scars, the angry red lines that cross her body indiscriminately. He looks at her with something she understands but will not let bubble to the surface. Soon, he will be back, and they will die or disappear, because she hasn’t decided yet whether this is another one of his tricks.

After all, the first lesson was that she was nothing. Had nothing.  

That had taken so very long to learn.

The one in black, he moves so suddenly, so urgently that she has no time to do more than flinch at how close he is, at the flash of silver at his belt.

His hands are rough on her cheeks as he cups her face, his thumb brushing so gently against her face. Her hand shakes as she reaches up to wrap it around his wrist.

She recognizes the look on his face now. It is grief and hope and affection and regret.

“Oh, Lady,” he says to her, so gently and sorrowfully, and she just hurts so badly.


	3. when all of this makes the news, will they remember to tell it right?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She is so tired of this fear, that lays so heavy upon her shoulders. There might have been a time when fear was something easily discarded but she will not think of those things that have come before. Not now. Not yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to thank everyone who took the time to read, leave kudos or review. It means a lot to me.
> 
> This was originally written as the final chapter, but I've since continued onwards, consider this the end of the first arc - more questions are asked and a few of them even answered in the next 'arc'. 
> 
> Anyway, thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy this chapter!

**part three:** _when all of this makes the news, will they remember to tell it right?_

They take her away from the dust and the dirt, from the darkness and the rock. She can listen to them a little now, captures strands and sounds and pieces together these people who remembered her.

She cowers when the hammer is swung so close to her, her breathing a fragile thing, shattering a chain she never notice looped so tightly around one wrist, blood and skin flaking away as it is pried off and tossed aside. 

It is the Captain, the one who brought her the water, who so gently gathers her in his arms, so concerned with her pain and her ruined leg. It is Loki - that name is like a chime, a death knell in her head but she is not ready to put the fragments in order yet - who tucks a cape around her.

And they leave in a moment of bright lights and the acrid sting of magic on the back of her tongue.

They go to a place called The Tower, and something about that makes her feel well guarded, at least, because safe is something that is long gone and lost for her.

But there is too much light, too much sound. 

There are more people, wide-eyed and horror-struck and she is tired and wants to be left alone now. There are three new men that leave her rigid in fear, remembering the blows of a mace, the dull strike of an axe, the slash of a sword. She cannot look in their eyes, cannot hear their words, so she does not.

She wants water and sleep, but is offered neither, is ferried down into the depths, to a cold metal table under harsh, blinding lights that leave her squinting and her head pounding and she is finally sick, coughing around the scant mouthful of water as she is surrounded by people once again, their lips moving in words she doesn’t hear.

The one who bears the hammer approaches her and flinches as she shrinks back at the sight of him. He is so careful, as he meets her gaze and places the hammer across the room from her, where she can see it.

She is unsure whether that gesture is meant to be a threat, a reminder or a comfort. 

He holds her arms against her body firmly, enough that she cannot move and it is enough to make it hard for her to breathe. 

The one who bears the axe holds her leg down, and the Captain looks at her with eyes that apologise before he pulls and pushes the bone of her leg back into place, tearing the skin more and the pain is a live thing that swallows her whole and she screams, and chokes and struggles away from all the hands that hold her down. Her good leg swings out, catches the Captain in the chest; the one who bears the axe jumps backwards before it catches him, with the hint of a hopeful smile on his face. She buries her elbow into the one who bears the hammer, and he grunts, releasing her. 

She is so tired of this fear, that lays so heavy upon her shoulders. There might have been a time when fear was something easily discarded but she will not think of those things that have come before. Not now. Not yet. Everything is too raw.

The Doctor is calm, soothing, speaking to her and offering her something. A stone of gold, with veins of quartz and impurities that smell of something that allows the tension to flee, the silent threat of the hammer to disperse.

Healing stones. These she knows, remembers. Crushed and scattered, they knit flesh, smooth over scars, brush away the hurts. They are a promise without words, and she nods at the Doctor, her hands closing carefully around the one he has given her.

It takes time. The hurts remaining on her body are numerous, hidden under her ragged clothing. The Doctor is patient, and the smell of the crushed stones is something leafy that makes her relax some more, running her fingers over the scars as they slowly sink back into her flesh and vanish.  

They piece her body back together slowly, carefully, wrapping her in rough cloth bandages to remind her of weakness. The white of the bandages is startling against the dirty stains of her skin. 

Then there is the Widow. She likes the Widow without knowing her - her title alone makes her think of a survivor, of the last one standing, and that is something she respects to the bone. She brings soft, clean clothing and understanding without pity.

The Doctor helps her stand for the first time in so dreadfully long. They ache as she tries to center her weight, and her first steps are clumsy. Reassurances rush around her, that she will heal and get stronger. That it’s been so long, it will take time.

Time lost all meaning a long time ago.

For all intents and purposes, she is wrecked.

The Captain takes her arm with a kind smile and they slowly make their way to the strange box that will take them to the top of the tower again. When her feet falter, catch and slip, he holds her up without a word.

There are so many people when they arrive in the right room, but they are not her focus. They are more words and pitying gazes. Her attention is upon the window, the light. The window stretches across the entire wall, revealing a blue sky streaked with pink and gold, a sprawling city of shining grey buildings, a perfect green expanse in the center. The Captain obligingly escorts her to the window, where she can press her bandaged hand against the glass and consider where she is now.

Perhaps she should feel relief, gratitude, hope. Emotions that bury nothing, that are all weakness and debt.

She still flinches when the one who bears the hammer appears at her shoulder, shrinks back as his hand rests heavily upon her shoulder. She is so aware of him, of his violence, that his words sound very loud, very sudden and urgent. 

“We are in Midgard,” he says. “Where I came when I was banished.” He smiles at her with hope so obvious it is a tangible thing. She just looks back at the sky.

“Do you not remember? The disastrous excursion to Jotunheim?” His hope is stretched thin now.

The Captain shifts at her left side and says something; suddenly she is in the grip and care of the one who bears the hammer. But he does not draw her from the window - he lets her stand before the window and gaze at this place called Midgard as the sky slowly turns from blue to pink and gold to darkness. He watches he the entire time, his eyes scoring her bruised face. 

She feels her lips move in the old mantras, the ones that kept the agony from breaking her entirely in the beginning, nonsensical words that are just sounds, and only when the great city is wreathed in darkness does she look back up at her companion.

His eyes are shiny, reflecting light and something akin to guilt.

“It took us far too long,” he says so quietly, carefully that she wants to wrench out of his cautious grip. “But we came for you, Sif. You’re safe now.” 

She does not say a word.


	4. but if the silence takes you, then i hope it takes me too

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She thinks that perhaps he might understand that the only thing worse than counting time is losing time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are, at the beginning of the second 'arc', slowly piecing things together, especially the residents of the Tower that Sif is not familiar with. Thank you for reading!

**part four:** _but if the silence takes you, then i hope it takes me too_.

Three days, two hours and eleven minutes.

The first time that the Man of Iron speaks to her (he looks her in the eyes and gestures to himself, saying, “Tony,” so slowly and clearly she hears it the first time), he gives her a watch. It is heavy with neat silver hands and ticks loudly enough that the other people stare at it.

She thinks that perhaps he might understand that the only thing worse than counting time is losing time. He claps her on the back before he leaves, and it might hurt, but it hurts a little bit less each day.

Her body, at least.

Her mind is still a trap, a prison, a lock.

That’s safe, for now.

Three days, two hours, fourteen minutes. 

There is the Lady, a tall, sweet woman who seems to be the Queen of this tower, that escorted her to quarters that first night, with Thor (that name still hurts every time she things or hears it; every time she flinches, he flinches) escorting her carefully and Loki, the shadow, hovering at their heels.

For the first time in her memory, she is alone. She knows that Thor and Loki wait in her quarters, leaving her to bathe. She tries not to think of them as jailers as she sinks into the water, hissing as it meets the remaining wounds on her body.

Steam rises from the water as she watches the dirt and grime and blood lift from her skin. She sees the hurts, old and new, clearly; the healing stones were only used upon the worst of her. Where the bone of her leg broke through her flesh, the scar is pink and thin; there are hundreds of narrow marks upon her, and she can remember each cut perfectly. 

She sinks beneath the water as it cools, letting it cover her face and mouth and nose; this is peace. This is something she wished for in the longest moments in the place of stone and dirt.

She surfaces, her hair sticking to her face and her body scrubbed clean. She sits there for as long as she can, until the water is cold and she is shivering and then, somehow, she dredges up the strength to stand once again.

Three days, twenty minutes, four seconds.

They hover around her constantly, reforming and reconfiguring every so often. They are slowly working out patterns she does not know; that she offers the closest thing to trust she still carries to the Doctor, the Captain and the Widow. She recoils from Thor and flinches away from those that call themselves the Warriors Three. She watches Loki and measures the distance between them with haunted precision. The others are kind noises - Tony and the watch, the Lady offering her a space to be alone; the Girl who talks too fast and seems to know her, the tiny, mostly-absent Scientist, the Archer who appears in corners, up high.

They feed her eventually and she eats slowly, waiting for it to turn to dust and bone in her mouth, but instead it is too much, trailing a hot path to her hollow stomach and she is spectacularly sick again, coughing and gagging, and when it happens every time she tries to eat, she just stops.

That disturbs them so much, and she thinks about telling them that it doesn’t matter. Her wounds are healing, and she has water - as much as she wants, and she drinks it like she is dying.

Was. Was dying. 

She spends her first days (three days, thirty two minutes, forty six seconds) curled in a ball in the room they all find themselves. She watches the sky from her cocoon, doesn’t listen to the words overhead and listens to her watch count time.

She watches the Archer watch her. He nods at her once, his expression unreadable, but it is not pity or sorrow, so she nods back.

When she is left to her quarters that very first night, they argued and bickered and rationalised about who would stay with her, until the Widow sent them all away (they all call the Widow by different names, she cannot decipher which is the correct one. Yet.)

She proved them all right, though, when she sleeps and the panic comes bubbling out; when his foul breath taints her dreams and their visages come to torture her again; hammer, blade, hands. She begs and pleads and argues and when she wakes up, it is Loki clutching her with wild eyes, trying to break the spell. 

Instead, she shoves him away and scrambles from the bed, to crouch in the corner with her head in her arms, the walls firm at her back, the healing stone in her hand.

It… it smells like home.

Three days forty minutes seventeen seconds. 

The tower is quiet now. Everyone is tucked away, and she is blissfully alone to consider the skies of Midgard, a comb in her jittery hands. The La...Pepper convinced them that the voice in the sky was capable of watching over her for a time, and when she finds the words, she will thank Lady Pepper for that. 

Perhaps she will be able to sleep, with all the light in the room, spilling into every corner. 

Instead, one of the Warriors appears, lingering uneasily in the corner of her sight, with an expression she refuses to decipher. She does not acknowledge him - he might still leave her alone.

Instead, he walks carefully into her direct gaze, sitting a careful distance from her, and gestures for the forgotten comb. 

“Allow me,” is all he says, and she passes it to him with lingering caution. He gestures for her to turn her back to him, to allow him to the tangle mass of hair she has been ignoring.

She doesn’t know why she does it. Water and so much softness (clothing, bedding, an impossibly amount of bandages) has tempered her fear. But she turns. And grips so tightly to the cushion in her lap that she feels she has torn it.

She has.

He talks as he fixes her hair, words that do not fly over her head, but reach her softly and do not demand a response or acknowledgement. Her grip slowly loosens, as he tells her of how he learnt to arrange a lady’s coiffure. He chuckles during it, and she knows these are stories she has heard before, as he carefully knots elaborate braids.

Then he is finished, and the comb is placed innocently on the table beside her, and he reaches for her hand - a bold move, one that startles her enough that she stares at it, the weight and resistance feeling akin to a burn.

“If we had any inkling, my lady,” he says in perfect sincerity, “you never would have gone alone. Any of us would have taken your place immediately.”

It is instinct when she tightens her hand around his, and meets his gaze.

It is so easy to be horrified at the idea of such cruelty upon someone else. 

“When you are ready,” he continues, his eyes seeking hers out with such kindness, the horror of what she remembers seems utterly breakable, “Loki can help you with your memories.”

And then he leaves her as silently as he arrived, with her hair arranged like a lady of court, her lips numb and her mind reeling. 

Fandral. He is Fandral. They were friends. She remembers that. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is my personal headcanon that Fandral is very, very good at arranging ladies hair, having to help his companions the morning after ^_^ I like the idea that when they were young, Fandral would have to fix Sif's hair before they were presented during formal occasions because she was hopeless at it. 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed it!


	5. it’s thoughts like this that catch my troubled head

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sky is no less mesmerising, it’s just the things under that perfect sky have been brought sharply into focus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to thank everyone for the lovely reviews. I haven't had time to reply to them yet but I plan to sit down in the next day or two and reply to every single one. Thank you all for taking the time to review and leave kudos. You are awesome and lovely and amazing. 
> 
> I will also take the time to mention that this arc is going to be much longer than the first one, and this fic is going to be much longer than I ever anticipated.
> 
> Thank you for reading!

 

**part five** _it’s thoughts like this that catch my troubled head_

Five days, twenty two hours and three minutes.

She was wrong. It is getting better; or at the very least, easier. When she walks, it is with a limp and it is so very slow, but she can hold herself up and move around without someone hovering, trying so hard not to touch her - or without her grip embossing itself onto feeble furniture and railings. Without buckling and curling in on herself.

The sky is no less mesmerising, it’s just the things under that perfect sky have been brought sharply into focus.

Food, too, has been brought to focus. It was the girl who talked too much - the Lady Darcy - who understood the quickest, as the others simpered at her to eat, just a mouthful, when it burns on the way down and on the way back up. 

Lady Darcy watches her with quick, intelligent eyes and a resourcefulness she wonders if anyone else has noted. Against the strongest of wills, she is victorious with her words, with her arguments. Lady Darcy is sly and sweet and careful. She is always smiling and laughing, and she would do anything, anything, to make sure that girl doesn’t ever stop smiling, that she is never given a reason to.

Darcy brings her small things, at first. Mostly brightly-coloured drinks in frost-edged glasses, because they have all noticed how she prefers the cold (having her body licked black by both flames and ice, it is the fire she remembers so clearly when she sleeps and she cannot bear it anymore, must ward herself against it).

Then there are thin soups, little more than beverages, served tepid (Darcy is kind, and says it is because her hands still shake sometimes, and not because she cannot bring herself to touch anything radiating heat, the old fear of her skin sticking and melting and cracking into fine ash...). Then there are thick, whipped drinks and sweets. Darcy brings her Midgardian candy in enormous bags and brushes off criticisms from the Doctor (Bruce) and the Captain (Steve).

The sweetness is a reassurance that Darcy cannot know to offer, against the memories of choking on blood and dirt, ash and teeth; tastes that still linger, reminding and threatening. The candy joins her in her soft, broken little world of clothing that hangs loosely, of blankets and a few remaining bandages, of light and soft voices and the ticking of the second hand.

She sees the hurt in the eyes of the ones she knew in a time before this. They see her reach for the Captain or the Widow when she stumbles; see her check for the Archer with curiosity and a kind of fondness. 

It is sharp betrayal in Loki’s eyes when he sees Fandral carefully cut through several inches of her battered hair (her knuckles white. hands twisted in her lap, with the idea he had a blade so close to her throat) and gently twist it into a long plait.

It is soft hurt in Thor’s eyes that she will not venture near him if he bears his accursed hammer. 

She still doesn’t speak. But then, nothing needs to be said. They hear the screaming when she sleeps (it is always Loki that wakes her, looking as panicked as she feels). She doesn’t know what she says when she screams, what cruelties slip through when she dreams but Loki is always there, his eyes wild and horror struck. 

He never touches her, when she is awake. It’s better that way.

The daylight hours are filled in hundreds of small ways. They are so careful and kind around her, including her even when their words are syrupy and incoherent once they reach her ears. Sometimes, she wonders what they were like before they brought her here, if her presence broke something they had together – something less deliberate, but hard won and greatly missed.

The healing stone the Doctor gave her upon her arrival is her touchstone, the scent reminding her of home – a hazy concept in her mind that is little more than something that calms her; there are no people that come to mind, no certain place. Just gold and light and the smell of herbs and magic. The Captain and Tony have both suggested she use it on her remaining wounds and scars, that are healing slowly, because it is the last one (ever? For her? She is uncertain) but she keeps it whole, within reach with the ever-present glass of water.

She spends an entire afternoon watching the Archer trying to steal her candy without being caught, watches the Doctor read steadily, carefully; watches Tony watch her in something that perhaps has turned into some kind of game because he pulls a chair into the centre of the room and stares at her more obviously a few minutes in.

She finds it curious, interesting, that Tony is movement, is talking and asking and answering except when he approaches her. No questions, even though she can see them bubbling underneath the surface, twisting and reforming and multiplying as he looks at her, and she is grateful that he holds them back, for now.

She wonders what he sees when he stares at her, if he looks for what is rippling just beyond the surface. If he recognizes what he sees.

The calm, easiness of the afternoon is broken as the sun sinks below the horizon, and they all gather together. The Archer’s pile of candy wrappers is discovered to the general disapproval of the room, and Tony’s concentration is shattered; he is skittering, distracted and talking again.

The small piece of candy forgotten in her hands is remembered once more as the Archer scowls, and she holds it out to him, and maybe there is a ghost of a smile on her lips or maybe that’s just wishful thinking. He looks at her with an expression on his face she cannot describe, but she feels more exposed to his eyes than she did to Tony’s gaze.

He takes the candy carefully, not touching her and nods once.

She has not noticed Loki, slipping into the room, swathed in black and looking haunted and almost accusatory towards her. She tenses, and he notices, pausing for a moment before continuing his approach.

He stops before her, and for a moment, he is unsure and it is an unfamiliar thing upon him, awkward and ill-fitting. In the worst of her memories, he is always so certain, so confident, his grip on his knives never faltering for a moment, and to see him lingering before her in such a way is jarring in a way that makes the memory of him inhuman, intangible, unreal.

He sits uncomfortably beside her, obviously and carefully measuring the distance between them.

Sometimes in that half-way place between sleep and awake, when she is trying to drag herself from her horrors, the memory of his hands upon her face when they found her is enough to calm her. She wonders if that means anything, because she finds the memory of the Captain’s reassuring hand over hers offers the same sort of comfort, or if her desperation is simply clawing and clinging to anything that holds it all back. 

He sighs and she wonders if he has been speaking to her, and she has lost the words again. But he leans over, enough that she presses herself back into the couch to maintain distance, and reaches out for her water glass.

Magic is acrid and alive on the back of her tongue and in the air as he calls it to hand and she watches a fine lace of frost form over the glass. 

“You loved that trick when we were small.” His words are self-deprecating and there is an edge there, a small misery, something uncovered that whispers at the edge of her mind but, for now, is misplaced. 

What she offered the Archer was not the ghost of a smile, barely even the idea of one, because she offers one to Loki now.

Because amongst pillows and blankets, water and candy, there is something soft and safe in the idea of his child-self making patterns in frost and ice just for her long-ago child-self, for no other reason than because she loved it. 


	6. this is way beyond my remote concern

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If he will not listen to the chorus around them, she will make him feel what it is like to be hollowed out by pain and have nothing left to give, not so much as a whispered prayer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, thank you to everyone who reviewed! I've managed to start my replies and hope to finish them all later today (it's already 1am and I love my sleep). 
> 
> This chapter is giving me formatting difficulties - I think I could them all, but I apologise if anything looks wonky. This chapter has driven me up the wall since I started it, so at least its bad behaviour is consistent.
> 
> I hope you enjoy it, and thank you for reading!

**part six** _this is way beyond my remote concern_

He startles her when he arrives.

That should not be surprising; she is easily startled. Lady Pepper kindly compared her to a fawn, which sounds much lovelier than she feels as she fumbles for her wits and courage every time a noise, a movement, a flash catches her unaware.

It is one of those mornings when almost everyone is somewhere else. Darcy watches over her most days; she does not know how they determined that she does not need the watchful eyes and strength of the Captain and the Doctor, of Thor and his Warriors - how they can trust her when she cannot trust herself. 

Lady Pepper has furnished her with a large book of pictures of Midgard, of cities and forests and deserts and jungles. It takes too long for the words to sink in enough for her to read but the pictures are lovely, and it was a kindness she does not feel she deserves.

The doors open, and he walks in without making too much sound - the crinkle of leather, a sturdy but silent footstep that is felt, rather than heard. She knows before Darcy, sitting at the long table with her own books, that he has arrived.

He is a threat wrapped in intimidation, and the heavy book hits the ground with a thump, as she moves closer to the window, where she can press her back up against cool glass and wait. That is all she has to do. Wait until it is fixed, until he is removed or, or…

“Sif?”

Darcy looks up at her, concerned, before she sees the one-eyed man swathed in black leather with the scowl etched upon his face. 

“Oh god.” Darcy appears more irritated than intimidated but she loses the words after that, as she lets Darcy defend her from another unknown.

She wonders if she could defend herself if she needed to. She only vaguely recalls a time when she fought back, resisted until the pain took over.

She had a shield once. A glaive too.

The memory is sharp, painful, but she remembers fighting. Remembers the weight of her weapon, remembers the heft of her shield and the confidence of walking the battlefield as the victor.

When she comes back to herself, more of them have arrived and surround the one-eyed man, bickering and arguing with words that feel like they are between panes of glass.

It is Loki and Thor who ring the worst battle over his head, Loki gesturing angrily.

The words reach her again, like a weapon she has pulled to hand but does not know how to wield. 

“SHIELD has wanted to speak with her for almost a week and I am damn tired of excuses.”

“Are you deficient or incapable of listening? She cannot speak.”

“Can’t or won’t? You seem pretty determined to keep her quiet. I’m certain some of our agents could get her talking.”

“If that is a threat, Director, this is no place in the Nine Realms that you can hide that will prevent me from killing you slowly. If you lay one hand on her without our - and her - express verbal permission, I will tear SHIELD apart until you and yours have nowhere to hide.” Loki’s face is a snarl, shadowed darkly and a fearsome thing.

“You might want to rethink your position on that, Loki,” the one-eyed man says with agitation. “Maybe remember that I can still toss you into the deepest, darkest pit I have at my disposal, and throw away the key - and enjoy it - if you don’t at least pretend to be on our side. We let you utilize the Initiative for your own rescue mission, and this is our compensation. We’re going to speak to her, whether you like it or not.”

A threat. One that steals words from Loki and makes Thor glower and the rest of them raise their voices. Threats do not ring hollow to her anymore. The words themselves are meant to inspire such terror, and when they don’t, the punishment is so, so much worse.

She gets to her feet and crosses the room, slowly and not as gracefully as she thinks she might once have moved. She is not an intimidating sight, not now; her hair is tumbling out of the elegant court braid she has taken to wearing, clad in loose, soft clothing and she still bears that haunted, hollow look.

But once, once she was a warrior, they tell her.

Thor jumps when he sees her at his shoulder, reaching for Loki, her hand on his shoulder.

It is the first time she has willingly approached them, touched them, and when he spins to face her, still angry and defending her, she jumps and her hand drops and she backs into Lady Darcy rather ungracefully.

“Sif.” His voice is low and for a moment, she is surprised. Loki calls her Lady, respectful and gracious, when he addresses her at all. Usually, the words that she doesn’t lose are careless, said near her rather than to her. The sound of her given name upon his lips is unfamiliar and intimate, and like ice against her skin.

The one-eyed man is speaking, and the only word that reaches her is ‘shield’, even though he is speaking to her. Words bounce off her soundlessly, like water on glass.

Too much, too many. Her name in his voice rattles in her head hollowly.

She turns her back, a conscious retreat to her book and the sky.

A hand roughly closes over her shoulder, dragging her backwards and the words tear into her mind.

“You will answer me.”

No.

She is not strong, not yet, though the Captain has promised her a dozen times over she will heal and mend and live to be something whole again.

It is the thing that the Doctor speaks of, the memory of muscles; it is instinct and fear and aggression all honed to their sharpest point and she spins around, her eyes narrow. The one-eyed man does not look threatened, but has a certain air of satisfaction about him when she meets his gaze.

She does not miss the relief and almost-joy lighting the eyes of the others, of Thor and Loki, of Darcy. The tiny Scientist looks uneasy, as does the Archer.

Later, when the Doctor carefully explains, she will understand better. That it is simple - they are mortal and she is not. That she heals faster and ages slower, that if she had been mortal, she never would have survived long enough for them to find her. That mortals are fragile and breakable, and ultimately she is not. 

(That he found a way to break something that was not ever meant to break fuels the slow burn of rage that is suddenly appearing in her mind.)

But for now, the hand has not left her shoulder, and she is going to rip it off.

If he will not listen to the chorus around them, she will make him feel what it is like to be hollowed out by pain and have nothing left to give, not so much as a whispered prayer. 

The Archer is the first one to move, to understand that this is not defence, this is provocation that a mortal body will not survive; this is feral and raw. This is not directed at any one thing, but at everything that has lead to this moment. At frustration and helplessness and being broken. They took their pound of flesh, and now it is time for her to take what is owed. 

The Scientist knows, too, but she is so utterly breakable that she does not interfere, but shrinks backwards in a way that suggests, perhaps, she knows what she is capable of.

The Archer grabs her around the waist, and it slows her but does not stop her. It is his yell at the others that allow them to see murder and death and violence in her gaze as she struggles free, her gaze set on the one-eyed man with blood on his face and the same wary look he gave Loki.

That makes her smile. Her second one, a sinister if slight curl of the lips that is utterly startling. It is a dark thing, a cruel thing, that sits unfamiliarly upon her face. 

Until it is Thor that pulls her back, and his arms lock around her. It is too much, to be touched and held back and she struggles, his nose breaking so suddenly as she flings her head back, and he drops her.

That rage she has so carefully tucked away gives way to dullness, hollowness and she presses her back against a wall as they speak over her head, to unravel what has occurred. She just remembers hate and anger that cannot be diverted, of being pulled and pushed and touched, and how easy it was to defend herself, to make the enemy bow and break. 

She comes back to the Archer crouched before her, snapping his fingers; Loki on his left and Darcy on his right.

“You okay?” The Archer is always so consistent, so balanced, so simple. She is either okay or not. Alive or dead. Strong or weak. There are no cracks to fall into, no streaked, eternal twilights to live through and she wonders why he has chosen this, to live in only absolutes.

“He’s an asshole,” Darcy says, huffing and looking indignant on her behalf. “I warned him. Bruce warned him. Steve warned him. Loki warned him.” She already has the bag of soft candy in her hand.

Loki’s gaze is not so simple. It is pain and hope and worry, and then she realises that his hand rests so gently upon her ankle in way that is just too much, but his eyes upon hers and the weight of that hand hold her in place.

She wishes for the reassurance of her healing stone, of being somewhere alone and quiet. There is blood on her hands and maybe her hair, and she cannot decide which is more terrible – that it is not hers, or that she is not sorry.

“Sif.” His voice is so gentle and kind, and she feels like these words are meant for someone else, and that it is embarrassing to be present as he speaks so intimately. She feels tired and old and worn thin in new ways, and she wants this impossible trap, this unsolvable puzzle of her memories and thoughts gone. She wants to scream and rage and break something and feel light and clean and new.

Loki is still speaking but she is not listening.

Hope is a disgusting thing. 


	7. i could possibly be fading, or have something more to gain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When she thinks of it like that, counting the time from being broken, forgotten and lost upon rocks and dirt, to finding a fragment of something pleasing, distantly related to joy, it is so very much time and it is not nearly enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A late update, and I am very sorry! I've been moving back into my flat in anticipation of going back to university in a few weeks, and that was time consuming at best. The next update definitely won't take so long.
> 
> Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoy it!

**part seven.**

_i could possibly be fading, or have something more to gain_

She is there for ten days and eleven hours when she laughs again.

When she thinks of it like that, counting the time from being broken, forgotten and lost upon rocks and dirt, to finding a fragment of something pleasing, distantly related to joy, it is so very much time and it is not nearly enough.

It was hard, with them all looking at her so sadly, but with caution, as if she is some wild animal. How many unhappy expressions can faces make? They keep finding new ones just for her.

But it was night time, the city dark beyond the window. The tiny Scientist has made an appearance; she has only glimpsed the finely wrought woman once or twice before. But now she is here, in the kitchens, where she helps with the food being prepared by the gentlemen of the tower, with the exception of the Archer, and being carefully supervised by the Lady Pepper.

Darcy is beside her on the couch, with an enormous bowl of Midgardian candy, watching the Lady Natasha (it had been Tony who had randomly pulled up his chair again, and carefully pointed out each resident of the tower and enunciated their names; only Natasha’s has taken the place of a title, in her mind) battle the Archer with some sort of brightly coloured Midgardian amusement on a wide screen, with sharp but easy words passing between each other.

She hasn’t worked out the rules or workings of this game yet. She will eventually. Perhaps even play herself.

Somehow, the Archer was victorious, enough that he jumped up from his seat and threw his arms in the air.

“In your face, Tash! Blue shell for the win!”

She tenses up at the expression on Lady Natasha’s face, the careful calculation that makes her blood run cold and her stomach feel hollow and aching. Darcy had looked at her, concerned but waiting.

The Archer caught sight of Lady Natasha’s expression in the middle of his energetic victory display and swore, stepping backwards, his hands raised.

“Tasha…”

Lady Natasha had lunged, the Archer had ducked and attempted to scale the furniture towards the nearest vent - Darcy had long since informed her of the Archer’s predilection for the inner workings of the tower - but tumbles backwards when Lady Natasha simply launched herself at him, wrapping herself around his back like a limpet.

The startled and slightly panicked look on the Archer’s face, along with the devious smile on Lady Natasha’s was what made her smile. 

And that smile turned into laughter, as the Archer began to beg and curse his captor, struggling to free himself.

For one moment, everything fell back into balance; that the thoughts that plagued her every moment, that the memories that hovered so heavily around her, that the scars on her body, they all dispersed.

And then Thor noticed she was laughing. Loki, too.

The group in the kitchen paused, silent, considering her so carefully as the Archer flailed. Silently. The smile on her face, her hand hovering above her mouth.

It made the laughter sound dreadfully hollow, dreadfully thin.

Not nearly enough to sustain the hope written so deeply on their faces.


	8. there’s nothing here to run from

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She stays there and listens, as the conversation drifts back, to more stories from Thor of this fearless woman he remembers, of his and Loki’s childhood, and tales from the others of death defying adventures, and she wonders if she has such stories.
> 
> If she will ever remember such stories.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is very late, and I do apologise. I was desperately hoping to finish writing this fic before semester began, but unfortunately that didn't happen and I'm back at uni with a full course load, so chapters might be a little slower from now on - but I am utterly determined to finish this without cutting any corners or plot points!
> 
> Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoy!

  **part eight** _there’s nothing here to run from_

She has started roaming the tower.

Perhaps they would call it boredom, but that is not all it is. It is uncertainty, caution that encourages her to slip from that bright common space, and not to trail up to her quarters.

The first few times, one of them shadows her as she explores, carefully giving the voice in the sky instructions – instructions that are repeated carefully to her so she understands. If she ventures too deeply into the building, she will find other people, lots of people. 

It is kind of them to pretend that it is the confusion of those faceless people they are protecting her from when it is them being protected. That she can, and will, inflict pain, that her language is passivity and violence until she finds her words again.

The voice in the sky is one she always hears correctly the first time, and whom she trusts implicitly.

Perhaps because he watches over her, and tells her things that smother the fear, as many times as it takes. He is the one that keeps the lights in her quarters lit as she sleeps, to burn away the darkness and the nightmares that hide in it. And, according to the Lady Darcy, he is the one that allows her the Midgardian sweets despite the constant disapproval from the Doctor and the Captain.

He is the guardian of the tower, and she hopes one day she might thank him.

In her travels around the tower, she remembers things, faintly and in a non-specific time. One is a childhood story of a hall full of doors, each of them opening to a room of something impossible. When she finds a small alcove with a waterfall spilling down a window endlessly, she is reminded of that tale and a thin smile blossoms on her face.  The water comes from nowhere and goes nowhere, just an eternal fall.

It reminds her of something and someone, a feeling she is tired of and ignores, because it is the best of the Midgardian magic she has seen. 

Sometimes she sees strangers where they are not meant to be and she finds herself slipping into the shadows, disappearing from their view. The voice is the sky is reassuring to her - that she is protected and he watches over the entire tower. That she does not need to hide from these new people. 

She stalks the hallways silently, relearning old skills slowly and roughly, and learns new things too. Small things. That the Captain is a skill artist, carefully and affectionately – and almost magically – rendering Lady Natasha’s sneaky smile, the guilty grin of the Archer, the manic energy of Tony and willowy grace of Lady Pepper onto paper with precise but graceful movements.

She learns that the Doctor talks to himself, twirling a pencil between his fingers as if he is speaking to a great gathering; and that the Archer can sing, moody songs that tell strange stories. 

That Tony has the angriest of scars bisecting his chest, scar-tissue upon scar-tissue.

That Darcy argues with people on the other side of a screen, a pleading argument that leaves her looking tired, and makes her want to offer some kind of comfort.

Anything she is not meant to see after that, the guardian warns her away from pleasantly. She understands. If she had the ability, she would send prying eyes away from her worse moments, too. She does not begrudge them theirs.

She finds her way back to the common area after dark one night, shadows pooling in the labyrinth of hallways and alcoves that make up the tower.

“When we were young, she was _always_ talking.” 

There is low laughter, chuckling, and she pauses, neatly concealed by bisecting walls.

“I went to Mother and asked her if all young ladies talked so much, and Mother laughed and said they got much, much worse.” Thor’s voice is a little sad but fond, and she wonders about whom he speaks of.

“She jabbered away that first day, it was dreadful.” Loki speaks up. “And she didn’t stop for years, I swear. I went to Mother to find a spell that would render someone silent but she guessed I was going to use it upon her and refused.”

“She remembered everything we said, though.” Thor’s voice is thoughtful. “Every piece of advice, every wish, every joke.”

“Every jest or doubt at her expense, too.” Loki’s voice is wry. “And she used to talk in her sleep, too.”

There is a yell of laughter and demands to explain, please, and she peers around to see Loki roll his eyes theatrically, waving his hand in the air. 

“As _children_. Are you all so crude? She was terrified of the dark, especially thunder, and would creep into our quarters with that wretched flea bag of hers, and I would be forced to listen to her babbling in one ear, and Thor’s snoring in the other.”

“She’s terrified of the dark now.” Darcy’s voice is a little sad, and her voice dull the laughter. 

“And of us,” Thor’s voice sounds broken and it is like a blow to her chest that they are speaking of her. “I wish she would just _speak_ , so I could tell her that she is safe now. That we will rage fury over the one that did this to her.”

“Trauma manifests in so many different ways, Thor,” the Doctor’s voice is calm and sympathetic. “Especially after such extreme conditions. She’s lucid and functioning on a basic level, which is more than I would have expected so soon.”

“But will she speak again?” Loki’s voice is edged with desperation she does not want to hear, but it is too late for that now.

 “Maybe. I don’t know.” The Doctor sounds tired now. “It might not look like it, but she is healing, and I hope that one of these days she’ll say something or try to communicate with us. But until then, we can only offer her support.”

They continue talking, the topics twisting away from her and into things that seem very distant and foreign.

The wall is hard against her head when she leans back and she tries so hard to remember the woman they are speaking of. The child they remember. She thinks of what she has learnt about herself – a lady warrior. A child who liked ice magic. A child who talked too much. A child who bothered. A child who feared the dark and the lightening. A child with a beloved pet.

She remembers the warmth of an animal on her stomach, of gentle nudges and a rumbling purr, and then she remembers tears and a hole in the mud.

And she remembers a too-small bed and skinny arms around her that she clings to as the sky crackles to life, her frightened breathing lost as she holds on tight.

It is branches and stars, light-years away from who she is now, and it feels like a story she has been told in vague detail than a genuine memory.

She stays there and listens, as the conversation drifts back, to more stories from Thor of this fearless woman he remembers, of his and Loki’s childhood, and tales from the others of death defying adventures, and she wonders if she has such stories.

If she will ever remember such stories.

If she will ever be able to tell such stories herself.

She will. Her resolve is a battered, whimpering thing but it is there after all of this, and she swears to herself that she will, will, tell those stories again, even if it is only to the audience inside her own mind.


	9. you've got me on the ropes out here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thirteen days, twenty-two hours and fifty two minutes after she arrives at the tower, she leaves the tower for the very first time. She is not alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to thank everyone who has reviewed and left kudos for this fic so very, very much. I was so nervous about getting back into fic writing again, and you have been so lovely.
> 
> This chapter was a struggle, I'll admit that. And it's also the longest so far, surprisingly enough. I thought about leaving it out, but I think it really encapsulates another stage of recovery. Plus, it's the penultimate chapter of the second 'arc'. This is also the last of the completed 'pre-written' chapters. Hopefully updates won't slow down too much, but I apologise profusely if they do.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading and I hope you enjoy!

**part nine** _now you’ve got me on the ropes out here_

Thirteen days, twenty-two hours and fifty two minutes after she arrives at the tower, she leaves the tower for the very first time.

She is not alone. No, she would not venture out alone. Lady Darcy is the leader of this expedition, and they are accompanied by the Captain, both watching her carefully as she finally descends to the public floors, to walk out amongst strangers, out and away from her soft comforts, from the things that keep the horrors at bay, that perhaps even allow a smile to grace her features.

It is not what she expected, looking out over the city for so many hours. It looks so expansive, so much space and light from her place far above it all.

It is wonderful and terrible and too much and just so impossibly foreign. There is not enough light, and everything is hard and grey. The strangers are a wave that washes around them and never stops, never pauses, just weaves around and keeps moving. They are talking, yelling, muttering, calling and always, always in motion.  

She huddles deeper into her oversized clothing – her top is a grey thing that was once lined in the most reassuring fleece, like tiny tangible clouds that she could sink into and rest her cheek again, to lull her into the shallows of sleep. Now, though, it is worn thin and rough, with ragged edges and holes in the cuffs that let her hook her fingers through, and allow her to cling tight to her threadbare armour.

It had been Darcy’s idea at breakfast, whilst she frowned at her plate as she carefully and methodically ate small pieces of fruit and precise squares of toast that Darcy had put in front of her with a flourish and a smile.

The Doctor, Loki and Thor insist on pushing food upon her, in godly amounts. They pile their plates high at all meals, amounts that make her feel stale and dull just considering it, and then offer, beg, insist she partake - as if they can rebuild her through sustenance alone, as if the only thing that is missing from her is a layer of fat and muscle, that she will be returned once her bones are hidden again. 

Darcy is a most ferocious defender of her consumption, threatening anyone with a spatula, spoon or, Thor once with the strange, crackling device that made her jump. 

“She’s eating food! Sorry Sif – but real food finally, not just candy! _Back off.”_

She likes the food Darcy makes, the joy that Darcy shows when her baking efforts turn out well, the sheer happiness when she finds fresh doughnuts in the kitchen, the fresh fruit that Tony has delivered every so often. She dances and laughs and always, always makes up two plates, even if she doesn’t eat a mouthful. But she understands Darcy’s unspoken message in the untouched plates – that there is food, an overwhelming abundance of it, when she is ready. And when she is, it is going to be wonderful. 

That morning Darcy had paused, staring at her hard and with no small consideration, declared that she needed clothing. Clothing that was hers, and not borrowed and pilfered, that was fitted and new.

“No one anywhere wants to wear a SI hoodie from five years ago. Trust me on that.” Darcy had smiled at her then. “We can get you out of the tower.”

She had offered no opinion at the time, just examined the square of orange fruit on her plate. But leaving the tower. Just the idea, that had been like gasping for air after being deprived, like icy water before fire; fresh air amongst smoke. Disorientating and strange but so very _promising_.

And now they were out of the safety and order of the tower, with people buffeting her on either side, paying no attention to her. The grey and black of her clothing blends with this city and its streets. She is invisible, and that is so refreshing she could cry. Perhaps one day, she will able to get lost here.

She is holding Darcy’s arm, the Captain shadowing them carefully. She knows he only joins them in case she gets upset again – that as strong and fearless as Darcy seems, she cannot protect herself, stop her if she feels the rise of panic and restriction, of violence, that sometimes overwhelms her, that has left angry holes and shattered glass in so many of the tower’s rooms; that has left many of them stepping back and waiting – waiting for her to find herself again, or for one of the few that can hold her down, hold her back long enough so no one comes to harm.

They are all learning, though, that there is nothing worse, nothing that allows the panic to build stronger and faster and more perfectly, than of strong arms holding her down, pinning her and resisting her. Those are the times she is left shaking and cowering, her teeth biting through her lip, her nails biting through her flesh. 

Darcy is good at distracting her with a steady stream of chatter and observations, dragging the Captain to her other side and then he speaks, of the City during his youth, a city both so very different and so very similar. He speaks with affection and no small amount of longing until he stops to marvel at a painting upon a building far above their heads, something detailed and magnificent that Darcy hands him her music device to capture the image forever. The Captain fumbles for a moment, but captures the image, and continually muses upon it as they continue their pilgrimage to new clothes.

 She vaguely remembers clothing from a non-distinct time in her past, of being measured to her great disdain, of digging through things at market stalls – thick cloth, smooth leathers and, occasionally, jewel-coloured silks. Of panels of shining silver mail, of delicate metal scales sliding together perfectly. Of clothing that slides against her skin in a perfect glove-like fit; of thin laces that have to be knotted carefully and specifically. Metal buckles that clasp against hips and ribs, curved and etched with the tiniest ornamentation.

 And then she remembers the feeling of those ties biting into her flesh and slicing so sweetly, those lovely buckles pushing again skin and against bone, burning molten, shiny and glistening as they spread wetly against her skin and she has lost her voice and her senses from the pain.

She likes the softness of the clothing she has been given, that she can pull the garments so tightly against her, wrap her self in them, and hold herself apart, within them. That they are armour and a cocoon, and all that she needs. 

But even if she spoke, she recognizes the futility of protesting Darcy’s plan. This is more than clothing, this is taking her away from the tower and the people. This is bringing her back to life, one small task at a time, and she would rather do them in the company of Darcy and the Captain, than have them linger on the horizon for some time she doubts she will be any more ready for, but most likely alone. 

She wishes, with everything she has, that there were less people. They are everywhere – in the streets, in the buildings and spilling between the both.

It leaves her reeling and so very aware of them, of staring and voices whose words she cannot decipher, even if she could unravel them all. But Darcy is efficient, and she finds herself slipping into clothing of overwhelming foreignness, of soft and rough fabrics, of garments that expose more flesh than they cover.

She hears more than one gasp at her scars when she shows her attire to Darcy, of murmured horror and sympathy that feel so heavy and obvious, make her tense and so very, very uncomfortable. She tries not to look into the mirror, to the sad-looking creature that watches her dully in response, with a thin face and short, nervous movements at how little she is covered by the clothing Darcy has selected.

Darcy carefully straightens one of the thin straps of her top – a garment that is so soft but dips low enough that the starburst of burn scars upon her chest peek out.

“I didn’t know you had a tattoo,” Darcy exclaims cheerily, sweeping her hair off her neck. “It’s beautiful.” She meets Darcy’s gaze in the mirror and Darcy’s expression is suddenly serious, kind, sympathetic. “Did you know?”

She shakes her head once and doesn’t see Darcy’s eyes widen at the acknowledgement and response of the question. That is new. Brittle little smiles and calculating eyes are all they are used to.  Instead, she smooths her hands against the fabric of her skirt before she looks back up.

She turns her back towards the mirror, and looks over her shoulder at the reflection.

She mistakes them for scars for a moment. 

The ink is white and the lines are as thin as thread, three long lines of delicate-looking patterns disappearing under the top she is wearing.

She remembers them, in a way. Of flesh sliced to bone in three long gauges, of a hunt and a back-plate cracked into three sharp-edged pieces that bit into the wounds in an agony that was new, then. Of hot blood, the sting of magic and a brave face. Of thin membrane holding her together, and then three thick scars to be covered with delicate ink and needlework that stung in another new, but ever so satisfying way.

 “Guess you were covering up those scars,” Darcy says, but it doesn’t sound right at all. She doesn’t remember the why, the reasons and the arguments (there were arguments?) only the how, so she ducks back into the tiny room to change again. 

She doesn’t remember ever having so many clothes in her life.

But she doesn’t remember much, really. Perhaps she had cupboards and trunks full of garments she never wore, had discarded, and they were never worth a thought then, let alone a memory now.

“She’ll need more than a couple of tattoos to cover up those scars,” comes an unfamiliar voice pretending to attempt to be quiet. The words hit her like a physical thing, not lost like so many others and these are the ones that she wishes were. It is judgement and pity and tinged with fear, fear of pain and fear of seeing both sides of such scarring.

She knows, she knows, that her body is held together with magic and scar tissue; she submits to the attempts of the Doctor and Tony to ‘fix’ her with techniques that are not of her people – what works upon mortals refuses to aid her and she is left with her story written where everybody can see it, and see what it cost. 

The snapping sound draws Darcy in and they both stare at the bent pieces of the metal hanger in her white-knuckled hands.

Darcy spins on her heel and she just sinks down to the floor, tracing the marks on her wrist because it is so much safer to turn in on herself than let it out into the world, where she will turn to force and fury.

Darcy’s voice is sharp and clear, angry. _“Seriously, are you kidding me – you seriously thought we required a running commentary on someone’s appearance? You couldn’t have saved it for the ‘thoughts of a judgemental asshole’ tag on Twitter?”_

She sits amongst all the clothes, her back against the mirror and the pieces of metal in her hands. Invisibility was always too much to ask.

The curtain is pushed aside and Darcy has reappeared. “Ready to go? I text Steve,” she asks, with a cheeriness that is edged in something sharp. Darcy gathers the clothing and leaves her to slip back into the worn familiarity of what she arrived wearing.

Darcy finds her again, clutching bags and wearing a grin that lights up her entire face. “I found us both something that is going to be awesome,” she announces. As they leave the shop behind, she considers how easy friendship comes to Darcy. How acceptance and consideration and protection seem to be offered from the girl with little or no resistance. That you have to prove yourself unworthy of it to lose it.

 There is nothing, though, that has to be done to be determined worthy of it. It sounds like a terrifying way to live, to trust without reserve.

They find the Captain, and he is waiting for them with a sympathetic look on his face – Darcy has told him of what transpired, of course – and holds out something to her and Darcy; something that makes Darcy squeal and kiss him on the cheek. 

It is the soft, frozen dessert Darcy plies her with on the worst of the days, decorated with brightly coloured fruit. It is cold and sweet and makes her smile, and no one says a word when she doesn’t finish it.

The return to the tower is strange. It is so quiet and ordered and calm. It is that oblivion and purity that she sought in water, made physical. It is a place where she can take a deep breath and tuck herself away from everything; she is pleased to be back, her senses raw and her mind spinning. 

She leaves Darcy to recall their mission alone, to seek out the solitude of her quarters, to strip herself of her top and examine those thread-like tattoos more closely (from the base of her neck to the small of her back, the scar a forgotten thing beneath it; pale lines that are only there if she seeks them out) and tries to divine their meaning. Their purpose. A memory she can grasp in her hands and hold tight and know and understand.

(And later, she will laugh for the second time upon seeing the matching shirts bearing the emblem from the Captain’s shield that Darcy has procured for them, that makes the Captain blush and stammer, and Tony pout.)

  



	10. this is why hell is underground

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The memories are thin, but she knows that there was always a son of Odin there to comfort her when she suffered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A new chapter, hooray! This chapter completes the second arc; the next arc will answer a lot of questions, will have more action.
> 
> This chapter was a difficult one to write, so I hope you enjoy it. I apologise for the ridiculous waits between chapters - time is the rarest commodity I have these days. 
> 
> Thank you for reading and I hope you like it!

**part ten**

_this is why hell is underground_

More and more, she is being left alone.

It is terrifying and exhilarating, a mantle of trust that makes her feel utterly safe, when the common area is empty of all but her. Lady Darcy leaves her music playing, music that is foreign but cheerful, music that fills up the spaces without overwhelming her.

She finds herself moving around more, too. Not the suspicion that forced her to venture out of the common area, but something different. A desire to simply be in motion. The Doctor and Tony caution her; they are still struggling to piece her back together, and it is made no easier when she is contemplating scaling one of the Archer’s perches out of curiosity. 

“Soon,” the Captain promises her with a smile, and she allows Tony to approach her with some new method of healing that reminds her too much of the torture that broke her in the first place.

Sewing the flesh with thread does not work, even when one of Thor’s companions brought back a needle that would pierce her skin – something about the criss-cross of black stitches, forcing the two pieces of skin together, it reminded her of something dreadful and she could not abide it. It had not worked, thankfully, though the needle has been pilfered and used to etch small pieces of vandalism around the building. 

They had attempted dozens of ways to repair her body, but only two had any success. Fire and ice. She misses the healing stones, but she doesn’t ask why they have given up on them. She submits to Tony’s experiments. She has seen the scar he bears on his chest; he understands pain and healing and what it is like to be remade, she is sure of that.

But until that illusive ‘soon’ the Captain has promised her, she is left to wander the tower to occupy herself, and to seek company. Most of them, they leave the tower during the day, but the few that remain appear content for her to linger. The Doctor brings her tea, and talks half to her and half to himself.

Tony’s lab is more like a cave or a graveyard of iron and metal. The music is always too loud, and the voice in the sky has learnt to turn it down when she ventures that way. But it is crammed with things that Tony likes to demonstrate like a child with a new project; and he has three metal creatures that fuss around both her and Tony like beloved pets. She spends far more time than necessary with those ‘bots’, amused at their childlike countenance and is rather pleased with herself when she is banished for teaching them several ball games she vaguely remembers from her own childhood that are both a danger to Tony and his work.

She does not meant to stumble upon the Scientist’s place of work. The tiny woman always appears preoccupied, carrying her work with her whenever she arrives at the common level, and speaking about it with such fervour, such excitement. The Scientist has not approached her, not truly, but observed her from a distance. She occupies a strange orbit around Thor and Lady Darcy, the Doctor and Lady Pepper. Sometimes it seems like Thor orbits her, though, and it amuses her to see how he bows to her whim so easily. She is all benign motion and words, except when Loki is in the room, when she is stoic and cold. 

A strange, distant woman.

Her rooms are full of light, with one wall marked with an enormous, elaborate map of some description. Long tables are lined with machines and piles of papers. The rest of the walls are covered with paper – strange images and maps and measurements. Books are stacked haphazardly upon the seating, and an old couch with a pillow and a blanket are jammed in one corner.

It is both more and less personal than Tony’s space, and the Scientist has never expressed any sort of welcome in her direction, so she turns to leave. Perhaps the Archer has left some of the more interesting arrows lying around the common area.

“Oh! Sif, you scared me.”

 The Scientist is looking at her now, a pen in one hand, staining her fingertips blue. She is almost smiling, but looks almost uneasy.  

“You can stay, if you want to. Darcy should be back from class soon,” the Scientist motions to one chair in the corner, as worn and comfortable looking as the couch. “Tony and Bruce mentioned you were visiting us.”

The Scientist gets distracted by her work, and she occupies herself by attempting to decipher the map. It looks somewhat like a tree, and other times, like a nine pointed star.

“Thor thinks I should sit down and ask Loki some questions,” the Scientist says suddenly, and she is standing at her shoulder, gazing up at the map. “That he can definitely help me.” She shrugs and turns to return to her table but pauses. “Can… Can I talk to you, Sif?”

It’s strange, the Scientist is the only one who talks to her like she expects a willing participant in the conversation. The others vary – the wretchedly hopeful, the cheery, the gentle and the mourning. They never expected her to speak. Somehow, this woman does. 

She almost wants to.

The Scientist is pacing now, waving her hands around like she does when she discusses something with Tony and the Doctor.

"I know everyone says that we have to be careful, that we have to let you set the pace, but I think you need to know. Or at least, we need to talk to you and explain. Give you the correct information and let you draw your own conclusions. And you didn't like me before, so it doesn't matter if I tick you off."

It isn’t surprising to find out that she and the Scientist were not close before now, even with her involvement with Thor, but it is jarring, unexpected to hear such a thing aloud.

She has this feeling that she is not used to so much female company.

“Thor. He is trying so hard to let you be, but… but this is killing him, you being so scared of him,” the Scientist finally gets out, her words urgent and sharp. “He won't say it, but he's blaming himself. He thinks that if he had been in Asgard with you, that this wouldn't have happened."

She is so very tired of that sentiment. That somehow, the presence of one extra person could have changed her fate. How, exactly? She was capable, according to them, once and even she could not fight against him forever. 

One victim is better than two. Broken is better than dead.

What has happened is already written. Bland insistence that they would change it, if they could, does nothing to convince herself of their convictions, of their affection and their goodness.

Words are inconsequential; actions are tangible.

That hammer still inspires nauseating horror in her; when it stalks her nightmares, those are the nights to stumbles to the bathroom to throw up the remains of her evening meal.

"I... I don't want to make this worse," the Scientist sighs, and sweeps the papers from a chair to sit down opposite her. "I just want you to know."

And the words spill from the Scientist. What Thor has told her, about a shared childhood. About how brave and strong she is. His dearest friend, his sister in arms. About a girl with golden hair turned dark. About the woman who protected and saved him so many times on the battlefield.

And as the Scientist speaks, she sees affection, jealousy, awe, wariness and acceptance colour the words. That she and the Scientist are opposites in every way, - the Scientist has her books and notes and the endless search for knowledge; she is the one that bares weapons - a shield, a blade - and walks a battlefield at his side.  

 And then she wonders distantly what words she would have used to describe the Scientist, had their places been reversed. That edge she finds in herself, iron will and stony silence, makes her think that perhaps she would not have been so … genuine. 

"In our stories, you were Thor's wife," the Scientist says, looking at her with a tired smile. "A friend told me about you, showed me the drawings of you we had. And then you and the Warriors Three came to Earth for him, and you were nothing like the myths. I was so, I don't even know." She shakes her head. 

"You – all of you, really - were so much more than I ever expected. He told me that you were his friend – his ‘sister in arms’ – and I thought I understood that, at first. And then you were so angry when I finally visited to Asgard, I was confused – I thought maybe I had misunderstood what you were to one another.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and smiled hopefully at her. “When Loki came to find Thor, to tell him you were missing, that’s when I figured some of it out.” 

There is a pause, as if she might have something to add, might be able to unravel a remaining mystery, but she does not. These memories of the Scientist, they are blank in her own mind. Her own sentiments, her own recollections, are locked away somewhere she has no inclination to seek, just yet.  

“He’s desperate to fix you,” the Scientist’s words are softer, but hurried, tumbling out quickly like she has held them in too long. “I’ve told him he can’t but he just… he needs to know you can be. Fixed, I mean. 

“I didn’t think there was anything Thor was scared of – totally fearless. I think he thought the same thing. When Loki came and told us, he wasn’t afraid. Confused and concerned, but he just has this incredible iron-clad belief in you that was actually kind of humbling to everyone. A few egos were cut down to size.” Her lips quirk in a smile. “I think he was actually kind of excited. He had Loki back, and I think that was one of the things he wanted most in the world, and he was convinced you were going to show up eventually.

“And then they rescued you and you’ve been so afraid of him… in all the time I’ve spent with him, I’ve realised that Thor… he really needs only two people in his world. Loki, and you. And if he loses one of you, he loses part of himself. Like, his… shine, as dumb as that sounds.

“In science, one of the first things I ever learnt was that for every reaction, there is an equal and an opposite reaction. That is – was – the three of you.” The Scientist spies the blue ink staining her fingers, and attempts to scrub it off with her t-shirt, before looking back up. 

“I just ... For Thor. We both love him, and if there is any chance that you can be okay again, please let him know. Just the tiniest thing – I don’t want him running off and taking on an entire army alone to avenge you because he blames himself for not being there. I know I’m being unfair and if Jarvis tells on me, everyone is going to kill me, but I needed to try. Just me venting.”

“Venting about what? I love a good vent.” 

Darcy is in the doorway with a bright smile on her face. “Sif! Is Jane trying to drag the secrets of the Bifrost out of you, too? She’s too damn stubborn to just ask Loki for help.”

“The map,” the Scien… Lady Jane covers easily and confidently. “I feel like I’m so close, I just can’t work out what’s missing.”

She slips out as Darcy begins her argument for simply requesting Loki’s help, trying not to think too hard on Lady Jane’s words.

She finds the hammer, later, in the common area. Her stomach swoops and drops and that is the weapon that crushed her bones, that shattered and broke and subdued her in pain and fear. She wants it to be gone, away from her.

But, she approaches it. It is still and cold, with the worn leather straps and the smooth stone sides, brken up only with carefully etched patterns that she can feel the magic sing from. 

She remembers the worst, the feral grin on his face as he swung it down and somehow, she dragged herself clear, the sound of the hammer striking the rock dull and ugly and sickening because that only meant that the next blow would be true. 

And she remembers hot pain, and collapsing against the dirt, soft whimpers escaping as he dropped the hammer close to her, her blood and bone and flesh clinging to it. The wake the blood dripped and ran slowly into her eyes and she saw the spidery cracks on the surface, where the force of the blows had broken the surface.

The uneven side of the hammer hurt worse, too. But by then she had stopped fighting back. She had learnt that stillness showed the loss of will, of hope, of fury and she bored him when that happened. He would attempt to find new ways to make her suffer, but he left her on her cold patch more often, forgotten, and that was the most she could hope for. 

There are no cracks on Thor's hammer. It is smooth and is hazy in her mind, but she remembers the hammer. Remembers Thor receiving it, his utter glee. How he dared everyone to try and life it, when it would not budge a mite for anyone but him. How he summoned lightning and storms, and near-destroyed the training ring trying to master it, his eyebrows burnt clean off. 

She remembers herself, so young, with her long dark braid and her red tunic saying something and his face lighting up, beckoning her over.  How he wrapped his arms around hers, his hands still gripping Mjolnir, and for a second she cradled it too, and felt the weight, and the magic reach out and touch her; it was almost like it was alive, a reluctant pet to anyone but Thor. 

“When I am King, I will have them forge you a weapon of your own, Sif!” The words are eager, affectionate, brotherly. “One that no one else might use but you.”

They were close, she remembers now, just as the Scien… as Lady Jane said. Two sides of the same coin. They could hide nothing from each other.

How many times in their long lives had he been the one that she sought out to listen to her woes; how many times in her youth had he been the one to dry her tears, to rush to her defence?

The memories are thin, but she knows that there was always a son of Odin there to comfort her when she suffered.

The threads of the past are thin; they break and vanish as she tries to piece them together. And as she traces the pattern of the hammer slowly, she wonders at Lady Jane’s words, and how for so many centuries he was - they were - the ones that she turned to, that they fixed the hurts and rebalanced her little world, and now they cannot. That she stills and shudders and sees monsters lurking behind them when they approach.

But there will always be monsters lurking.

Always be something stalking the shadows, seeking weakness.

Bones will break, skin with tear, blood will spill. It is the way of the world.

She needs no weapon forged in her name, wreathed in magic for only her hand to yield.

 She will reforge herself, stronger, swifter and better. She will wage a war in her own name, for her own spilt blood and her own broken bones.

 She will reclaim her shield, her glaive; her voice and her good name.

She will wrap that fear in steel, in determination, and in the most fragile of trusts, and she will offer it up to the brothers of Odin, the ones whose faces watched over her suffering. 

She stays there, beside the hammer, lost in thought until the group begins to gather in the common level. She sees the Lady Jane’s nervousness as she looks at her, feels the stares as she sits there, watching Mjolnir. 

Thor watches her the longest, and his gaze feels so urgent, so desperate and so foolishly hopeful.

She only meets his gaze once, when he walks over slowly, cautiously, to sit down beside her, the distance between them measured carefully and precisely. Her muscles are tensed, her knuckles white, ready for her to scramble and fling herself away to some corner, away from Mjolnir, from Thor, from the ghosts that are always more tangible around the pair.

But she doesn’t. 

‘Soon’, the Captain has promised her.

‘Now,’ is what she is promising herself.


End file.
